Killing Him Softly
by TehDARKTemplar
Summary: It was killing him. Killing him softly. How fitting. He felt as though he was suffocating. Suffocating as he watched her. Garen/Katarina (Implied one-sided) Talon/Katarina Oneshot. Perhaps. Flames or praise, doesn't matter to me, just review. Props to ShiNaa for allowing me to use her pic for this fic :P


**Just a little something that came to my mind randomly. Thanks for taking the time to read it, and please review! Enjoy!**

**Note: Thank you ShiNaa for allowing me to use her art for the cover. Itis called Sacrifice and you can find it on deviantart. **

It was killing him.

Killing him softly.

How fitting.

He felt as though he was suffocating.

Suffocating as he watched her.

He would watch with unparalleled attention, taking in even the minutest of details. He made sure that no one threatened her, that no one came close to her. He would watch even her most trusted of friends with suspicion, his hand fingering his hidden blades, daring them to give him an excuse to end their pitiful lives.

Why? It was his duty (at least he told himself that).

He was her shadow, an ominous presence shrouded by darkness, only coming out when she would quirk an eyebrow and sarcastically remark about how he must be afraid of sunlight.

He hadn't always been so protective of her, there had been a time when he hated her with every fiber of his being, and wanted nothing more than to drive his steel blade deep into her chest and watch the shock and horror register on her face, another victim of his vicious blade.

It would silence her, giving him peace of mind for the first time in what? Weeks? Months? Years? All he wanted was for her to keep quiet and leave him alone, let him do his duty (as much as he hated it) without her interference.

But, he had gradually warmed up to her, her sarcastic quips, her arrogant comments, her aloof manner, and her bloodthirsty personality. He supposed that his feelings for her were apparent at several points throughout his lifetime, and the very first signs of the gradual melting of his cold heart were when the suitors started to appear.

He remembered well the very first one, a proud and pompous man from a noble family among the elite. He had arrived unannounced, practically kicking down the door (though he seriously doubted his physical capabilities). He had spent about thirty minutes conversing with her, and as her Father wasn't home, there was not much anyone could do in ridding the mansion of his disgusting presence.

Well, anyone but him.

He took pleasure in evicting the arrogant bastard, and from her reaction, she loved the show as well. She laughed aloud as he dragged his body, kicking and screaming through the mansion, making no move to save the man. After he unceremoniously threw him out the door she stood by him and watched from the doorway as they (she) guffawed hysterically as the disheveled suitor hightailed it through the streets.

She had slapped his arm, still giggling, and had thanked him (between multiple gasps) for disposing of the "trash."

Instead of being annoyed be her behavior, he found himself... enjoying the moment. No. No he couldn't. It wouldn't be allowed. It _couldn't _be allowed. He was her servant, a being off the streets. It wasn't possible. It wasn't going to happen. Right?

Whatever his doubts, something inside of him clicked him that day, and he stuck by her, gaining the nickname," The Blade's Shadow." She was annoyed at first, but grew to appreciate his presence as more and more suitors began to assault her, enjoying their very public humiliation immensely.

Their relationship was reborn, not one of spite and hateful words being exchanged, but something... more. Something better.

The next such time he could think of was their first mission together.

It had been about three years since he had been introduced to her, and she had asked him to accompany him on a mission into Demacian territory. He had been surprised, more by her straightforward inquiry rather than the question itself, and it took him some time to answer. He had been thankful that he made it a habit to keep his hood over his head, as it saved him the embarrassment of having to explain his gaping mouth.

They had set forth from Noxus that day, making good time and arriving at the Demacian border at noon the next day. They had scoured the forest for hours, looking for the corpse of a slain Noxian, and had found the corpse, under the care of the Dauntless Vanguard.

She, in her recklessness (and bloodlust), ignored his pleas of formulating a plan and had rushed headlong into the camp, cutting down dozens of soldiers that had been roused from their slumber by the shouts and cries of the dead and dying sentries. They had charged her, roaring their battle cries, but for all their courage and valor they were cut down by numerous steel projectiles thrown by her hand.

He, upon seeing her being assaulted in such numbers, had jumped into the fray, killing several soldiers who had their backs turned (their mistake), and had managed to pierce the swarms of soldiers enough to retrieve the corpse's head. Unfortunately, he had neglected the Demacians' commander, a large fellow wielding an even larger sword.

He had leapt into battle with a thunderous roar, disregarding the numerous blades she threw his way. He closed the distance rapidly, and began a vicious duet of clashing steel.

She, being much smaller than him, was at a disadvantage, and without her partner to help her she was quickly forced back. Of course she fought hard, desperately trying to keep the Demacian at bay. But all her skill came to naught as she had been drained by the dash into the Demacian camp.

He had watched helplessly as she was felled by the Demacian, a sword cut to the eye. She fell silently, knocked unconscious by a brutal head butt that followed the blow. As he took in the sight, almost unbelievingly, it ignited something inside of him, causing red hot liquid rage and cold fear to course through his veins. He disengaged quickly, and flew across the battlefield, leaping over enemies, dodging their blades, throwing out the occasional knife.

As he neared her, the Demacian commander, taking note of his presence, had brought up his sword for the final blow. A new wave of energy surged through his form and he burst through the last group of Demacians barring his path and barreled into the would-be-executioner.

The man flew, hit a tree with a resounding crack, and fell still. He quickly knelt down beside his fallen comrade, and noting her minor wound, quickly threw her over his shoulder. He beat a hasty retreat, taking care to shield her body with his own whenever the Demacians came too close for comfort.

He had miraculously emerged out of the dense grove of trees ahead of the enemy and managed to find an abandoned burrow.

He had carefully let her down into it, brushing her flaming red locks from her face and whispering," I will return."

She mewled her affirmation, barely nodding her head, and a feeling of fierce protectiveness overcame him. Shaking it off, he quickly left her hiding place, taking care to hide in the overgrowth as much as possible until he was as far as he could be from her position. He then began running in the direction of the border, followed by Demacia's elite. He continued to run at full tilt for about half an hour until the leading Demacians threw down their arms in disgust and turned away from the futile chase.

Breathing heavily he hid in a ditch, waiting and watching, watching and waiting. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Forty minutes passed until he dared make a move, and even then he crept about warily, trying to identify shadows as either trees or actual human beings.

When he finally arrived at the burrow, he had been gone for two hours. He moved up silently, still on high alert. He had frozen in place when he had heard a twig snap, and slowly swiveled around, surveying his surroundings. He had been about to go out and investigate the cause of the noise when he was tackled into the dirt with a knife at his throat.

He had momentarily felt remorse for failing her (although he didn't know why) until he felt a sudden jolt of shock as he recognized the figure that was straddling him.

He whispered her name, and she immediately recognized his voice. She collapsed onto his chest, asking him why he did what he did, why he didn't just abandon her and complete the mission. After all, in the end, any soldier was expendable; the outcome of the mission was always worth the casualties.

Better to take heavy losses and succeed rather than take minimal losses and fail.

There seemed to be genuine curiosity behind the question, and it seemed to be masking something else…

To be truthful he didn't really know. All he knew was that he felt an overwhelming urge to keep her safe. He had ignored her question and instead focused on her wound. She had argued that it was trivial and that the priority was getting across the border, but he remained determined to cleanse the wound, eliminating any chance of infection.

She had relented, and sat reluctantly under his surprisingly tender care. He had dabbed at it with a bit of alcohol he found near an enemy corpse and used a piece of his own clothing as a cloth and bandage. She seemed surprised, and perhaps even a little touched by his tenderness, but that moment was fleeting and it was gone as soon as he had spotted it (or at least he though he did).

He examined his work with a bit of satisfaction, and had suddenly started feeling a want, a need to kiss her as he looked upon her face, illuminated by the moon. But he had withheld the sudden rising of emotions, and instead hauled her to her feet and began the journey back to Noxian territory.

She had spoken of desire for a rematch against the Demacian during their trek back to Noxus, but he had assumed it to be petty revenge.

After the mission, she had requested to be paired with him for all of her upcoming missions, and the High Command seeing how much of a success their first partnership was (two assassins wiping out two whole companies of the Dauntless Vanguard singlehandedly?) had agreed wholeheartedly.

As they served together, they became more and more in tune with each other, to the point where they could read each other as if they shared a single mind. Their movements were timed perfectly, in sync down to the last microsecond. Their backs were always covered, the objective always in mind, the same plan formulating within their minds in unison. Hardly any words needed to be exchanged between the two in the heat of battle.

During this period of their relationship, they grew closer. It was inevitable. How could two people, so in sync, so in tune with each other's thoughts, not become as close as they did? This change in their relationship caused him to be ever more... vigilant; in particular he paid much more attention to her.

He would more often than not find himself staring at her, entranced by even the most subtle and meaningless of movements that she made.

The way she carelessly brushed back her hair when it got in front of her eyes, the way she arrogantly put down the incompetent, the way she danced across the battlefield... He would constantly be cursing himself, internally raging at himself, trying to control emotions that he had never experienced before.

As a result of his constant vigil over her, it was inevitable that he would notice her doing the same. Though he attributed it to his imagination, he thought that had spotted her one or two times discreetly examining him, and every now and then she would lay a hand on his shoulder, and, in thoughts twisted by wishful thinking, they felt… tender. Of course, being the cold professional that he was (or at least appeared to be) he shook it off. Although, he never could get the feeling of her warm hand on him out of his mind completely...

The third, and perhaps most important of all the events was the night she found out her Father had been abducted, and presumably, killed.

She had broken down, crying where she stood. He felt as if he had taken a sword to the gut. The dual blows of having to hear the news that the General was missing and her reaction to it was unsettling to say the least.

But, a protector put his charge's wellbeing above his own feelings, and so he did. He had dismissed the servant bearing the news, and knelt down to her, rubbing her arm and whispering comfort to her through her blood red hair.

She had clung to him as a child clung to its "teddy bear" when they are frightened. Guiltily, he had reveled in the feeling of his body so close to her soft one, the feeling of her soft hair brushing his nose, the scent of her intermixing with his.

He had rid himself of those feelings (at least he tried to) and continued comforting her, as awkward as he found it to be (he wasn't experienced in such manners).

This had continued for about ten minutes before her sniffling had finally stopped, and she glanced up at him, her tears reflecting the moonlight. He recalled the feeling of awe that washed over him then.

But that awe was soon replaced by shock. She spoke three words. Three little words that made his heart stop and his hands tremble.

She loved him? How? Why? It was fantastic, it was fabulous, it was… it was dangerous. It was bad enough that he formed such a close relationship with her, but to be so familiar with her? He continued rubbing her arm unconsciously, staring unseeing into her emerald pools, feeling conflict rage about within, but was suddenly snapped back into reality as he felt her warm breath on his face.

He reacted instantly, according to instinct. He had stood up quickly, dropping her as if she was infected with the plague. He snarled a warning, reminding her that he was her bodyguard (as much as it pained him). That they were of different worlds, he was from the streets and she was an aristocrat, that they were assassins. That assassins were emotionless bastards that stabbed people in the back, murdering entire families, leaving no loose ends and no survivors.

As much as his heart ached for such intimate contact with her, the object of his infatuation, he couldn't allow her to infiltrate his heart in such a manner. He _wouldn't_.

She had drawn back as if he had slapped her and grew cold, ignoring him for the rest of the night. Although she resumed speaking with him the next day, their relationship was never really the same afterwards.

He ached for her warmth, her loving touch, or at the very least the illusion of it. Many a night he had spent lying awake, trying to recall the feeling of her velvety fingers on the cloth of his shoulder. Of course, trying to imagine it was never as satisfying or as exhilarating as the real thing, so he ripped himself apart, living in his own personal hell, cursing himself, watching her silently.

Then, the High Command had decided that their services would be useful elsewhere, namely, the League of Legends. They were to be inducted as a pair, and would be the very first Noxian champions in the League. They had left within a week of the announcement, and although she was excited, she was still reserved around him.

It made his heart bleed.

They had arrived at the League in a manner befitting of Noxus' finest assassins. They were lead into the great building by a single man, and encountered few people along the way to their quarters. Seeing that the League was comprised of champions who thoroughly hated each other, they were separated by their allegiances. He had parted ways with her, gingerly brushing her arm with a finger. Although her face remained blank, she seemed to shudder at his touch.

It made his lungs freeze.

He spoke in his usual monotone voice, taking care not to show her how much her almost imperceptible motion affected him, and asked her to meet him in the courtyard. She had agreed mutely, nodding her head before leaving to inspect her new home. He had watched her retreating figure, mentally berating himself. He had collapsed in his bedroom, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to sort through the maelstrom of emotions that raged about inside of his mind.

Loss. Pain. Hate (although not for her, he could never hate her)... Love.

He finally recognized the emotion that had plagued him through his time spent with her. The emotion that had caused him to follow her like a shadow, that caused him to put his life on the line for her, that forced him to stare at her, that _almost_ allowed her to break down the steel walls that surrounded his heart.

He sat up, determined to work things out between them, to mend the burnt bridges, to bridge the emptiness that separated them. He had all but ran to the courtyard, pushing past Summoners and Champions. He paid no heed to the disapproving and hateful glances thrown his way, only mindful of the time he had before he lost her completely.

He had turned the corner, ready to throw himself down at her feet, only to find the Demacian commander sparring with her.

His first instinct was to leap in and cut the soldier's throat, but he then noticed something… that she seemed to be... enjoying the Demacian's company... He hadn't seen her smile like that since… since…

He felt as though he had lost the ability to breathe.

He had stared for what seemed to be an eternity, his fists clenching and unclenching. Their sparring session finished, and the Demacian offered her a tour of the League. He acted on instinct, years of denying suitors hadn't been lost on him. He stepped in between the two and he coldly refused his offer. But she broke free, a burning fire in her eyes, and she had coldly stated that she would," love to be shown around."

And with that, she turned and left with the Demacian.

Something inside of him died that day.

Something once beautiful and blossoming now withered and died under the hot sun of her scorn and hate. Or maybe it was already dead. Perhaps it died when he had denied her…

Their relationship quickly devolved, and it eventually became what it first was, an exchange of hatred (at least on her part). And although it grew with every passing day, he was still bound to his duty, and she still adhered to her Father's commands. So, he accompanied her, shadowed her, watched her.

She spent every possible moment (out of the eyes of the public) with the Demacian, and sparred with him often, keeping up the pretense that she wanted to erase her defeat at his hands years earlier.

It was painful watching them.

His sharp eyes, honed by years on the streets saw every detail, every touch, every caress, every kiss. It all contributed to the mounting pain within his chest, threatening to explode.

It didn't help that the Demacian threw smug grins his way; it appeared that he hadn't forgotten about their encounter earlier, and the Demacian reveled in the ultimate victory. He taunted him often, as they would encounter each other on the on and off the Fields of Justice because of their shared… acquaintance. His taunts were sharp, poisonous, and their barbs sunk deep.

But he never answered them, purposely allowing himself to be beaten down. For he knew how she would react if he ignited a conflict with her lover, and he didn't want to lose the little contact he had with her, even if it meant he had to feel the burning pain of his loss, his failure, at all times.

Five years had passed since then. Five long years of the Demacian's taunting, of her cold attitude towards him, of his self-loathing, of reminiscing, of wondering what his life could have been like. Peace had come upon Valoran three years ago. Peace for the first time in decades, in centuries. And to commemorate the peace, she was to be married (they had gone public as soon as peace was announced)... to _him_.

To everyone's shock and surprise, she had denied all of his proposals, allowing him to gleefully escort (manhandle) the Demacian out of the mansion.

As much as he enjoyed it, he wasn't stupid. All good things came to an end, and this was no exception.

She had finally relented after two years of being pestered by her lover to seal the deal.

That had been some months ago. Ever since then she seemed apprehensive, nervous. She was constantly on edge, always snappy, as skittish as a newborn colt.

He had assumed that she was just nervous about how good of a wife she would be, it seemed to be a recurring theme with the women he knew.

That didn't make the pain of the knowledge that he lost her for good any less. It made it worse. He would think about how he could comfort her, hold her, whisper loving words to her.

But it was all just wishful thinking.

He sat in his room, the same room he had lived in for his whole time as part of the Du Couteau family. He stood in front of a mirror, examining himself, deep in thought, thinking about all his failures, his wants, his needs. All of them centered around her.

At some points in time the old Noxian mantra came to mind. This was one such time.

Better to take heavy losses and succeed rather than take minimal losses and fail.

But what if there was no way to succeed?

Then there was only one option.

He glanced at the bottle in his hand. He had stolen it from her poisons cupboard (she kept them to remember her late sister by).

Glancing at his gaunt reflection in the mirror, he thought about how sorry he was. Sorry for the constant fighting that went on between them, for his inability to admit that he loved her until it was too late, for his failure to identify the feeling as love.

He examined the bottle's contents, it's yellow-green contents, and then drank.

Poison infiltrated his system, paralyzing his lungs.

He felt as though he was dying.

He _was _dying.

Death by suffocation.

A fitting death.

He was an assassin.

_They _were assassins.

And she was killing him softly.

**Alternate Ending**

As his eyes clouded, he spotted the door opening, a bright light flooding the room.

A feminine figure stood in the way.

Assuming it to be the maid he croaked out," Go."

The figure glanced at his hand, and gasped when it noticed the bottle in his grasp.

The figure advanced hastily, and began slapping his cheek, emitting shrill screams and cries. He closed his eyes as it did so, willing himself to fall into an everlasting sleep...

But the voice... the feeling of those fingers...Could it be?

He managed to pry his eyes open with the last of his strength, and caught sight of the emerald green eyes and red hair that he so adored.

"Katarina," he breathed out, hardly daring to believe his eyes.

She was saying something, but he couldn't hear her or make out what she was saying. As tried to understand what she was saying, he noticed tears starting to form in her eyes, her wonderful, beautiful eyes.

His last thought was, _Katarina, why are you crying? _

**Yeah, it was pitiful, I know. But I don't usually put as much effort into oneshots as my regular stories, so I'm sorry if you hated it D: **

**Anyways, if by chance you're a Noxian Assassins/True Strength fan, I've only just begun working on Chapter 12, but it'll probably be delayed a bit as I'm working on a Brand/Lissandra fic and a Shen/Akali oneshot. I'm sorry, I've just recently been assaulted by an onslaught of plot bunnies . I'll work on it as soon as my oneshots are done (the Brand/Lissandra one is halfway complete and the Shen/Akali one will probably undergo a massive rewrite). **

**Anyways, as for this oneshot I had originally wanted Talon to live, but I decided that his suicide would be more… emotion inducing I suppose? I don't know, even I can't understand my thought process at times. Okay, moving on, I hope you enjoyed and please leave your feedback! **


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